Chapter 6: A Good, Ordinary Girl, 1986

by Elizabeth McWillams

My father had been practicing piano for at least an hour already, and it was only 8:00am. Finally giving up on sleeping in, I swung my feet out of the bed, stood and stretched. It was a beautiful fall morning. The leaves on the maple tree outside my bedroom window were a deep, pomegranate red and contrasted sharply against the clear, blue sky. The leaves fluttered and rustled slightly in the breeze but otherwise it was a completely quiet morning – a Sunday morning. We would leave just after lunch for the long drive back to Maine.

This weekend at my dad’s house had been fun. He took us for a picnic at a pick-your-own apple orchard and we had filled so many bags that we were bringing some home to our mother, even after having already made and devoured two apple crisps. After the picnic, we had gone to a movie in town and my father had offered to let us bring friends along. My sister invited her closest friend and I had brought Tessa. We sat three rows in front of my father, fearful that some of the local kids would see us at the movies with a parent, and proceeded to ignore him entirely. It didn’t matter – he had nodded off before the previews were over and didn’t wake until the credits were rolling.

We had delighted in the independence these two hours in the dark afforded us – giggling at one another’s stupid jokes and throwing popcorn at the boys who sat two rows in front of us. One boy who was in Tessa’s class had come and wedged himself between Tessa and me. His name was Nathan and I had seen him many times before hanging out with various clusters of boys and their skateboards in front of the Pizza Cellar. Nathan sat with us for just a couple minutes, teasing us about the popcorn stuck in our teeth and laughing out loud at the curious faces the other boys made as they peered back at us. In retrospect, I suppose those boys were jealous of Nathan’s audacity – we were only twelve and my father was, after all, just three rows back. I kept squinting in the dark over my shoulder to see if my father had woken up and taken stock of the situation, but he never did. Nathan finally whispered to me, leaning close into my ear, “Stop worrying about your dad. He’s not going to wake up.” I blushed at feeling Nathan’s warm breath in my ear and looked nervously at Tessa. She rolled her eyes and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets.

On the walk home from the movies, Tessa and I couldn’t stop giggling. “Must have been a funny movie, girls,” my father remarked. “Sorry I missed it.” His comment set us off roaring with laughter and my father, baffled, merely fell silent and plodded along behind us.

But the fun was now over. It was Sunday, and my sister was already situated on the couch with her homework. She nodded at the corner of the room where my own backpack lay crumpled in a forgotten heap. “You’d better get started, too,” she quipped. “Mom has people coming over for dinner tonight so we probably won’t get much done if we leave it ‘till later.”

I yawned in response, shuffled over to the kitchen counter and poured myself a glass of grapefruit juice. My father was still playing piano so I grabbed my book from my backpack and took it with me to the armchair that sat in front of the piano. It was my custom to find a photo album, novel or picture book and sift through the pages while my dad practiced. The weight of the book in my lap, the cool, fall air and the soft chords of Debussy, Chopin or Beethoven made me feel nested, tucked in. My dad smiled as I walked in and then returned to his playing. The metronome swayed in time in the background.

I don’t think I was more than three pages in to my book, Animal Farm, when I noticed that my dad had stopped playing. I looked up to see him rubbing the bridge of his nose absentmindedly, his glasses clutched in one hand. He ruffled his hair, put his glasses back on and walked over to me.

“Aha,” he observed. “Animal Farm! ‘All men are enemies. All animals are comrades….. Four legs good, two legs bad,’”  he quoted, his eyes twinkling. I looked at him blankly, nervously feeling that I had already failed this celebrated American literatere professor with my slow, laboring mind. There was an awkward pause.

“Well, what do you think of Comrade Napoleon?” he finally asked.

“Uhm, he seems kind of cool, I guess. I’m only on page three.”

“Oh, well, it’s a great satire – I think you’ll enjoy it. Political in nature, of course.” He blinked at me expectantly and I felt embarrassed that I didn’t have any commentary to make whatsoever.

“How do you memorize all those quotes, Dad? Have you read the novel, like, a thousand times?”

“No, I just remember the goodies. I haven’t read that book since I was your age and then only the one time.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. No wonder you’re an English professor. I can’t remember the sentence I read just two minutes ago.”

“Well, you’re distracted no doubt. Has it been a fun weekend for you? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did, Dad – thanks.” I looked up at him, having no idea what to say next. He stood there silently for a moment.

“Well, I’m going to go refill my coffee cup. Eight cups so far this morning doesn’t seem to have done the trick” he joked. “You keep on reading. See if you can remember something.”  I winced at the insult, intentional or not. My father, who had been moving forward to pat my head, seemed to think better of it, withdrew his outstretched hand and left the room.

I felt oddly empty in his absence – torn between the yearning to follow him into the kitchen and somehow prove myself to him but also impatient to return to my mother’s house, where I could just be. Part of me wanted my father’s approval so badly. I wished I could spout quotes from numerous books at will, comment on the satirical content of George Orwell’s famous book, or play a flawless Moonlight Sonata. But I didn’t play the piano, apart from the opening notes of Fur Elise, and I certainly couldn’t quote any famous authors, except for perhaps Shakespeare’s “Out, out! Damn Spot!”  And I only remembered that because my teacher muttered it so frequently while introducing the Macbeth unit.

I was a good, ordinary girl and that was about it. And, as my mother liked to joke, reaching into her bag of Maine colloquialisms, “It sure is a good thing you’re cute, Katherine, because you’re dumb as a hake.”